


A Threat of Explosion (constantly strapped to your side)

by FakePlastikTrees



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:54:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26566900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FakePlastikTrees/pseuds/FakePlastikTrees
Summary: Rio struggles with being super into Beth whilst still being super mad at her. (what's new amirite?)
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio, Rhea & Rio (Good Girls)
Comments: 53
Kudos: 333





	A Threat of Explosion (constantly strapped to your side)

It isn’t long before business picks up and they’re selling more spas than Rio ever thought could be sold. He’s impressed, though he’ll never tell her, and he’s intrigued by the way her brain operates. He thinks he knows how it works, but the truth is, 90% of what intrigues him about her, is how often she surprises him. 

She’s stopped fussing about him dropping by unexpectedly, which, admittedly, takes out half the fun of showing up in the middle of a work day, but still. His new hobby, when he can spare an hour or two during the week, is judging how business is going by her appearance; a new purse, or a new pair of shoes, or business-appropriate dress. It’s good to see her treat herself. 

There’s something fucked up about this, about showing up just ogle her, or to see how much of a reaction he’ll get from letting his gaze drop as far as it will go down her dress. But that's not the worst of it. In fact, the worst of it might be that on the days when he’s feeling the most furious with her, is when he’ll wait down the block for Dean to leave because she’s the one that handles the books, theirs and his, and of course Rio now has her schedule down, has committed it to memory because...well, just because. It’s good for business to know what his biggest liability is up to at all times. That’s what he tells himself anyway. To justify the things he does, and the things he feels when he’s around her, and when he’s not. 

So he begins making his visits in the evening, when she’s closed up shop and it’s just her, the books, and a bottle of bourbon she keeps in her desk. 

He stays no longer than five minutes in the beginning, under the guise of needing to confirm her calculations, running the numbers with her after she’s already done it. She thoroughly hates it. He can sense her annoyance and her aggravation with him. And that’s fine because it goes both ways. The animosity is mutual and they both know it. Which is why when his visits run longer and she starts expecting him, he has a difficult time sleeping. 

At some point, she and Rhea start talking again, and Rio isn’t absolutely convinced there isn’t something there other than friendship. He just can’t see Elizabeth being the casual friend type. But Rhea is a grown ass woman and all he can do is give her all the information, so he lets that slide. But he doesn’t let Elizabeth slide. He keeps coming around, sometimes two, three times a week, until one night, when he catches her in a bad mood, and she either forgot he was coming, or there’s enough going on that she’s truly shocked to see him darkening her doorway. 

She’s frazzled, dabbing away tears when she whips around at the sound of his knocking against the doorframe. 

“Jesus, do you ever call?” 

She catches herself in the end then, like that wasn’t really directed at him, and so he gives her a second to collect herself. He doesn’t even call her out, he just waits, leaning back against the doorframe as she turns away from him to collect herself.

When she turns back around to face him, book in hand, ready to hand it to him, her eyes are still glassy, and her nose is red, and she looks so soft that he almost forgets himself. He almost forgets that he could very well hate her, perhaps already does, he almost forgets she shot him. 

Almost. 

“All good?” 

They freeze a moment, as if she’s trying to figure out if he means the books, or whatever it is that’s going on with her. He’s not sure what he’s asking either, but she nods eventually, takes a step closer and holds out the leather bound binder for him to take, but he waves it off. 

“I trust you.” 

“Since when?” She huffs. 

He shrugs, brushes past her and rounds the desk to the bottom drawer where he knows he’ll find a glass and a half-drunk bottle of Bourbon. 

“Knowing you, it’s probably a stupid move,” he says as he pours. “But how about you just count your blessings, huh?” 

She rolls her eyes at him and he almost smiles. He takes a sip and nods approvingly before holding the glass out for her. 

After hesitating a moment, she takes it. 

She waits for him to round the desk again, and when he’s inches away from her, he can truly see the sadness he’s sure is Dean-related. He wants to ask her what’s wrong, and something deep down inside might even want to offer to fix it for her, but they’re not there yet. And he’s definitely not that weak anymore. But, he reaches out against his better judgement anyway and gently brushes her hair back and behind her ear, tracing the swell of her cheek with his index finger, clocking the way her breath hitches quietly at that. 

When their eyes meet again, something shifts and he sets his jaw, not knowing why, but being sure that he needs to leave immediately. 

“Have a drink, yeah? Get some rest. It won’t seem so bad in the morning.”

And then he’s gone, without looking back. His skin prickles with something he doesn’t like. He can’t stand the way it feels like she’s pulling him in no matter how much space he puts between them. 

So, he tries staying away. Coming around only when absolutely necessary. He finds himself driving around aimlessly on nights he normally would spend watching her work at her desk. He pretends he doesn’t notice that and instead takes up late night boxing. This goes on for a few weeks before he’s restless and antsy and Mick is calling him out for snapping for no reason, and one night he finds himself driving to her house. 

She’s taking out the trash and she spots him immediately, walking over to him like that night he watched her put up a stolen stop sign. 

She’s in her work clothes still; a dark blue dress he doesn’t remember ever seeing on her, her heels clacking softly against the road as she makes her way to him, except this time he meets her halfway, and what he’s going to say, he isn’t sure. He’s not even sure what he’s doing here, only that he had to see her. 

After a long silence, she finally says, “Hey,” All soft and pleasant like he hasn’t heard in a while and he thinks maybe she’s had a drink or two. 

It’s disturbing how easily he forgets, if only for a moment, all the shit they’ve done to each other. It fucks him up in ways he can’t explain, not even to himself. 

“You want to go somewhere with me?” 

She looks at him for a long time, those big blue eyes staring up at him like she’s trying to sort him out. For a second he thinks she’ll turn him down, tell him her kids are waiting or something, but before he has the chance to get angry about it, she nods. 

“Yeah.” 

He drives. For a long time, he drives. An hour, two, maybe. He keeps driving and she just sits there beside him, not sassing him or asking him questions, yet he can feel that energy between them building, the tension slowly driving him crazy. 

At some point, she lowers the window to lean into the crisp air, her hand out, combing through the incoming gust in pleasant little waves. If it were any other two people in the world, this would be an ideal picture. 

Rhea would say they need to have a conversation, talk about their feelings and whatnot. Except, Rio isn’t sure conversations are something he and Elizabeth will ever perfect. But, surprisingly, silence they can do, and do it well. They go on like this until he eventually finds himself outside her house again. 

The engine is rumbling softly, shifted to park a few houses down to be safe. It’s late, but the lights are on inside as if someone is waiting up. 

She sighs beside him and the sound might be the first since he scooped her up. When he looks at her, she’s already looking and she smiles, resting her head back, and fuck. She’s beautiful. He can’t help but consider that things would be easier if he didn’t find her so goddamned beautiful in the moonlight. 

“Come by the store tomorrow,” she says. 

He’s consumed by his anger, and his hatred, and their differences, and yet.

And yet. 

“Alright.” 

“G’night.” 

Her dress flows down to her calf, the soft material hugging her curves in all the right places, and he can’t help but wonder if she’s as soft as he remembers between her legs.

There’s no denying he has problems. 

He used to think his biggest one was Elizabeth, but now he questions how big of a problem she truly is if he keeps coming back like he has no other choice. He must be some kind of masochist running back to her like this. Whatever it is between them, it can’t be healthy for either one. 

The tension often feels like that moment between pulling the trigger, and the bullet exploding out the barrel. He knows there’s no way it ends well, and yet he shows up the following night. 

It’s later than usual but she’s still there, sitting behind her desk, music softly playing as she flips through a magazine. 

The normally busy street has quieted down outside and her little fish bowl of an office glows in the otherwise darkened building. 

She barely glances up at him when he steps inside and takes a seat opposite her. 

He pretends to thumb through the book, which she’s left sitting conveniently for him to look at, and when he’s looked at exactly nothing in it, he looks up to find her staring, not unlike the way she’d stared at him in the bar that one time. 

“Satisfied?” She asks. 

And then, because they’re good at silence, but not so good at subtlety, he leans back in his seat and counters with, “Are  _ you _ ?”

When she doesn’t say anything, he asks, “What am I doing here, Elizabeth?” 

She shrugs. Coy as hell. 

“Take me for a ride.” 

He savors the silence now, smiles when she does, marinates in it before giving the armrests a swift double tap and getting to his feet. 

“Let’s go.” 

And so that becomes a thing. 

He shows up once, sometimes twice a week, he waits for her to finish whatever work she’s got, and then they go for a drive. Often, they drive out of the city, and she rolls down the window as soon as they hit an empty highway. 

He likes having her in his car. He likes that she gets comfortable enough to choose the music as she sees fit. He likes that one night, twenty minutes into their drive, she asks if he’s hungry and they have 7Eleven hotdogs, sitting in the parking lot. Rio complains the entire time but he likes that she laughs at his grimace upon taking the first bite. 

Elizabeth, as it turns out, knows the location of each and every 7Eleven in the city, and they hit every single one in search of hotdogs, or bad pizza, or a bag of sour gummy worms she’s craving once. Rio isn’t sure how she talks him into consuming all this junk, but he does it. Sometimes, they even talk. About banal things. Regular things, like the rude customer she had to deal with and inevitably sold a spa to, or Marcus losing a tooth and then crying over it being stolen by the tooth fairy.

On a Wednesday, Elizabeth looks tired. Fed up with something or other, and she meets him at the door.

“I need to get a drink.” 

She’s already walking to his car, and he just nods, twirls his keys, and follows her. 

“Thank you,” she says when they finally have a drink and a quiet little booth in the back of  _ the _ bar. 

“For what?” 

“For coming with me.”

“Well, you jumped in my car, you didn’t give me much of a choice.” 

She smiles, does that thing where she scans his face, and then sips her bourbon. 

She’s wearing that blue dress again. It’s one of those wrap dresses that especially demands his attention, and he won’t deny that it’s taking everything in him to focus, but he’s holding on. 

After a song or two, and another drink, Beth asks, “Is this weird?” 

He considers her question for a long moment, regarding her closely as a song with more bass than the last begins to play. He thinks of her face that night, streaks of mascara down her cheeks, her fear palpable, his own anger at his miscalculated attempt at...at what? What did he think would happen when he brought her to his empty loft and gifted her Turner as if she would react the way he wanted her to. 

The thing is, he’s not a patient man, and she’s not one to follow immediate direction, and he grew impatient, or he misread her, or--well. He kidnapped her, and she shot him, so there. They’re even. He doesn’t know her as well as he thinks he does, ever, and maybe he should start getting used to that. 

“No, it’s not weird,” he finally says, holds his drink up to his lips and stops with a smirk as something passes between them, and then, “Yeah, it’s weird.” 

She laughs softly. “It’s weird.” 

They finish their drinks, and he drives her home. He goes to bed smiling and feeling lightheaded, and he’s positive it’s not the alcohol. 

  
  
  


*****

  
  


“I bet you have sisters.”

Rio’s wincing through a mouthful of 7Eleven pizza he’s pretending not to maybe like as Beth enjoys a slurpee. 

“You strike me as someone with at least two sisters,” she adds. “I bet you’re the baby.” 

“This is disgusting,” he tells her promptly after swallowing, “it tastes like rubber.” 

“I bet they give you shit about everything,” she continues undeterred. “I bet they made you buy their tampons more than once.”

Rio wipes his mouth with a paper napkin, recalling just last week when Monica asked him to stop by the store to buy her just that on his way to their weekly breakfast at their mom’s house.

“You ever eat anything besides convenience store junk food?” 

She glares at him through another slurp before she pushes off the hood of his car. 

“I have to cook for 4 children, almost every day. Three perfectly balanced meals. Sometimes, I just want to keep it simple and eat something that isn’t so...involved. You know?” 

“No.”

“Why won’t you tell me if you have sisters? I’m not asking for specifics, just a yes or a no.”

He exhales slowly, narrows his eyes at her, and pushes off his car, grabbing what’s left of their pizza to toss in the nearby trash bin before responding. 

“Yes. Happy?” 

“Wait, really?” 

He nods, now facing her. Her smile goes all the way up to her eyes and he can’t help but like that. 

“So, how many? Two? Three? It’s three, isn’t it?”

“Two. One of them lives in California. Has two kids. The other one lives here and still makes me buy her tampons from time to time. She’s bossy as hell.”

It feels strange, telling her this. It feels like peeling off a layer and he isn’t so sure he likes the exposure. But Elizabeth is smiling wider now, sipping her cup of frozen sugar as she takes in the new information, and oh man, he’s got no idea what she’s going to do with it. 

“She sounds awesome.” 

“Yeah,” he laughs, “You’d get along, actually.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Unfortunately.” 

She smiles even wider still at this, and damn it, he can’t help but smile back, and her eyes are so big, and so blue. How does someone manage to look this good under shitty convenience store lights? 

This is the night he decides he’s going to cook next time. 

He spends the remainder of their night together brainstorming dish ideas, and trying not to stare at her face, which is doing something a little extra tonight and he can’t quite put his finger on what that is exactly, but he can’t stop staring at her, can’t stop asking her things he knows will get him a long, elaborate answer; what’s your favorite thing to bake? How was Jane and Marcus’ playdate the other day? Who’s the worst mom on the PTA? As it turns out, it’s a dad in the PTA who most annoys her. 

It’s ridiculous how invested he is in the mundane, everyday aspects of her life.

  
  


He makes her enchiladas. 

She tells him she’s impressed by his stackable tupperware when he lays it all out on her desk; one for her, one for him, one smaller container for the salsa, and another for the shredded cabbage. 

“I don’t want you to get any racist ideas,” he warns her as he tops the enchiladas with cabbage, “I don’t only eat Mexican food, even though it is the best food on the planet. Enchiladas are quick, good comfort food.” 

She’s looking at him in a way he’s being seen a lot of lately–it still catches him off guard and he avoids meeting her gaze as he tops her serving with a good amount of salsa, then hands her a fork. 

“It’s not too spicy, I promise,” He tells her when he finally looks at her.

“I can handle my spice, thank you very much,” she snaps and then proceeds to dig in, cutting multiple pieces before finally taking a bite.

He watches her chew twice before pausing as a look of surprises passes over her. He smirks and waits for her to resume eating to dig into his own food. 

They eat in silence, but he can feel her stealing glances at him. It isn’t until they’re about halfway done when Beth finally speaks up. 

“No one’s ever cooked for me before.”

“For real?” 

She shakes her head, pushing food around with her fork, not looking at him. 

“Well, Ruby, but–” 

She shrugs, and he knows she means Dean hasn’t ever cooked for her. 

He can sense her tensing up, and god, he hates how he can  _ feel _ that. 

“You’re letting all the good stuff out,” he says, pushing her fork away with his own to push the cheese back into the piece of tortilla she’s just squeezed around.

“I am not!”

He makes sure to have the proper amount of cabbage and salsa before scooping the bite up in his fork and holding it up to her mouth.

She eats the piece without hesitation, and then gestures at him like saying, “there, you happy?” And Mick might think he’s lost his goddamn mind but he might just be.

“Is there somewhere I can wash this?” He asks once they’re done, and she looks like he’s just told her he has proof aliens exist. “Yes? No?” 

She blinks after a moment, shakes her head and then collects the tupperware herself. 

“I’ll take them,” she says. “I’ll cook next time. You can take them back then.” 

“Cool.” 

“Okay.” 

She looks down like she’s bashful all of a sudden, and damn it, he likes that, too. 

There’s a last minute problem with one of their suppliers that demands an in-person meeting, and Rio drives across the border to meet with him, and so he doesn’t see Elizabeth the following week. The week after that, Rhea’s got some trip with her sisters and Marcus is at Rio’s a few nights longer than usual, which is great, but still, Rio can’t help but wonder if he should text Beth and tell her he’s not coming again this week. He didn’t last week, and she texted to ask if everything was okay. 

He replied an hour later with a quick “Work stuff” and she’d texted back “kay”. 

This time she hadn’t texted him though, and irks him that he’s noticed, that he keeps looking at his phone while attempting to watch Jurassic Park with Marcus, that he checks his phone three more times before bed and then tosses and turns well into the night. 

The third week, he doesn’t show out of spite, and that turns out to be a bad idea because by Wednesday, he’s on edge, and finds himself driving by Boland Bubbles and, god he really hates that name. He also hates how irrationally angry it makes him to see Dean sitting in Beth’s seat. It should be her sitting there, not him. It makes him especially angry when the doofus spills beer all over himself and then looks around him as if someone could have seen him. 

God, he’d love another excuse to shoot him. 

He considers going to the bar, knocking back a few, maybe hitting up one of his hookups. He hasn’t done that in a while, but he gets as far as the parking lot only to realize he’s not even remotely interested, and so he goes home, and pours himself a drink there, listens to music he thinks he’ll lose himself in, but he’s restless still, crawling out of his skin and it’s only 9. So, he does the only thing he can think of and calls Mick. Mick, who is out with a new girl, and who is no mood to be tortured by Rio’s incessant rambling about meetings they’ve already scheduled, and plans they’ve already worked out and gone over with a fine-tooth comb more than once, listens to him for all of two minutes before interrupting. 

“You and the soccer mom get into it?” 

And Rio falls silent very abruptly at that because he was not expecting that, and because there’s nothing to get into. 

He hears Mick exhale. 

“She’ll get over it.”

Why it’s automatically assumed that he’s done something to get over in the first place is annoying enough. 

“Fuck you,” he growls into the phone before hanging up. 

He grabs his gym bag and heads for the door, fully intent on working out until he’s exhausted himself. 

He’s in his car and parked on her driveway first thing in the morning. He’s waited for Dean to usher the kids into the car, given him a five-minute head start, and then pulled right in, heading straight for the front door instead of the backway like he usually does. He doesn’t knock, and he thinks for a second maybe that’ll read a little desperate, but this isn’t about anything other than Elizabeth not keeping her ass available like she’s supposed to. That’s all. Nothing else. 

He finds her in the kitchen in some floral print silky robe still, back to him as she busies herself with dishes in the sink. 

“Did Kenny forget his jacket?” 

She sounds different. The N’s in Kenny don’t quite sound right, but it’s not until she turns around in mid sniffle that he realizes.

Oh.

“Hey,” she says, a smile on her face despite the obvious surprise of seeing him there. Her eyes roam over the balled up tissues on the counter and she quickly gathers them up when his own gaze follows. 

“What are you doing here?” 

She shuts the water off and leans back against the sink, tying her robe shut. 

She’s softer than he’s ever seen her, and something tugs at him. 

“You haven’t been around,” he says, actively putting some edge on it, though he’s not sure he’s succeeding. 

“Yeah, I uh, Emma and Jane caught something at school and then of course, I caught it and...anyway, I’ve been here.” 

He nods. 

She fidgets, pushes her hair back behind her ear. 

“Is everything,” she starts, and then hides a tiny sneeze behind her hand. “Excuse me–Annie and Ruby were supposed to do the drop-off, did they…”

He hadn’t even thought about the drop-off. Her girls have been doing that for a while, and Mick’s been meeting them ever since.

“Nah, they’re cool.”

“Oh,” she says, and laughs a little, nervous. “Okay. So--”

He searches for an answer that isn’t “I came over because I hadn’t seen you and it was fucking with me,” but comes up with nothing and so he resorts to the only thing that ever makes any kind of sense between them. 

“You can’t just disappear whenever you want. We have a process for a reason, you can’t fuck with the rotation.”

It’s unnecessary. He knows that. And she looks like she’s been slapped, but he sticks to it because anything else would mean more than it should. So he raises his chin, setting his jaw. 

And then all the softness he found her in is gone when she steps forward, bracing herself on the island, and this he’s comfortable with. Anger he can deal with, it’s easier to grapple with. 

“Are you  _ serious _ ?” 

And then they’re all but talking over each other.

“You think you get paid vacation?”

“I wasn’t on vacation--”

“You want a retirement plan, too?”

“I’ve been  _ sick _ .”

“You got commitments. Your kids get sick, figure it out, I need you available.”

“Got it,” she snaps.

Her tone tells him she’s done with him and he feels the faintest trace of regret approaching, but he’ll push back against that later if he needs to. 

She meets his hardened state for a moment longer before blinking back what he fears might be hurt and then she’s back to doing dishes.

He’s definitely been dismissed, and well, fair enough. 

He leaves, feeling entirely like an asshole. A couple miles down the road, he calls Mick and asks him to meet him at the warehouse. 

“We gotta go over some things.”

Mick sighs, like he knows they absolutely do not have anything to go over, but he agrees to meet him anyway.

This should kill a few hours. 

Rhea calls him later that week to remind him of Marcus’s game that weekend. 

“I’ve got a meeting I can’t miss that morning, but I’ll pick him up after.” 

“Nope. Saturday’s trophy day, so just come here. It’s my turn to host.” 

And, right. Trophy day. 

_ You get a trophy just for playing. _

“Alright. You need anything? Want me to get one of those bouncy castle things?” 

She laughs. 

“No, it’s not a birthday party.”

“It can’t hurt Little Man’s rep, right?” 

“Pizza and cupcakes is good enough, trust me. He doesn’t need to flex.” 

“I don’t know about that, but you’re the boss, mama.” 

His meeting doesn't run as long as he thinks, and so he’s at Rhea’s early enough to help set up and make small talk with some of the parents. 

“I thought you said there’d be cupcakes,” he asks Rhea when they’re done setting up. 

“There will be,” she replies. 

And as if on cue, a herd of kids he recognizes instantly storm into the backyard through the side gate, and then…

“Jane, your shoes are untied!” 

Elizabeth in full supermom mode, looking a lot better–in a casual long green dress with little white buttons that run down to her knees, leaving her legs to peak out as she strides in. She’s carrying a large tray of cupcakes she no doubt made herself, and hasn’t seen him yet. 

“This isn’t gonna be weird, is it?” 

He looks over at Rhea, and she’s watching him intently. 

He shakes his head. 

“Nah. We’re good.” 

“Okay. Just--you know. Be chill.”

“I’m chill.”

“Mmhmm.” 

Rhea spots Marcus trying to pick Jane up in an exuberant hug, and she rushes over to avoid any accidents. 

“No, Marcus, how many times do I have to tell you not to pick people up?” 

He’s still laughing when he turns away from the scene, which so happens to be when Beth is walking up to the table, where a space has been made for her cupcakes and she pauses only briefly upon seeing him there. 

Soon enough she’s got that mom-smile, on her best behavior. 

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he greets back with a nod, watching the way she expertly moves the tiny treats around so they’ve got just the right spacing in between. 

They have little frosting soccer balls on top, and he can’t imagine someone having the time or patience to make these, but he also knows Elizabeth believes there are 24 usable hours in a day when there’s shit to be done, and he can appreciate that. 

“How you feeling?” 

She glances up briefly, shrugs as she grabs a napkin to clean some of the frosting off her hands. 

“Fine. All better.” 

“Yeah, you’ve got some color back in your cheeks. That’s good.”

She shifts the tray again, moves the stacked paper cups a little to the right, before finally settling upon smoothing down her dress for the sake of having something to do with her hands.

“I didn’t know you were going to be here,” she says, finally, waving at a woman who’s just come through the side gate.

“It’s trophy day.”

“Right. If I’d known, I would have brought your tupperware.” 

There’s a stretch of silence as he fills his cup with red punch from a bowl while she avoids looking at him.

He can watch her all day, he’s realizing. Whether she’s happy with him, or scowling at him, or plotting to kill him--yeah, he could watch her all day. 

Maybe someday he’ll stop seeing that as a problem. 

“You look nice,” he says, seemingly out of nowhere for both parties. 

She snaps her head in his direction, all wide eyed and speechless, while he freezes momentarily, the muscles of his right leg twitching as if readying for an escape, but he waits, gaze locked on hers, plastic cup up to his mouth. 

He thinks for a second she might tell him various ways he can go fuck off and die, but what comes out instead is a soft, “Thank you.” 

A moment later, trophy time is announced and one of her kids–Jane, he thinks–is pulling her by the hand. Their eyes meet once more before Marcus pummels right into him, chanting, “Trophy time! Trophy time!” And rio hauls him up over his shoulder. 

He finds himself missing her a lot that day, though she’s a mere feet away the entire time. 

She laughs about something with a group of parents, and he misses laughing over some random high school story she’s somehow pulled out of him over bad pizza and cherry slurpees. He’s jealous of the proximity of the other parents to her, the ease with which they approach her, and he misses being near her, in her space, close enough to smell her perfume. Mostly, though, he misses the  _ almost _ of it all. It’s a stagnant type of feeling–like he’s been thrown off a plane mid-flight. Like they were headed somewhere and now they’re stranded in some unknown country where neither one speaks the language. 

It’s strange, the in between–between not hating each other, and not necessarily liking each other. They’re somehow always hovering over that line. Between wanting each other and repelling each other. It’s exhausting. 

Later, as people start to leave, he finds himself watching her gather her kids while he puts away folding chairs, and he wonders if anybody watched over her while she was sick. He also wonders why she didn’t check in, but he can guess. Maybe he just hasn’t earned to know when she’s sick. 

Who knew that was something he wanted in the first place? 

She looks up from walking Jane through tying her shoes, their eyes locking for a moment, and she smiles, and he finds himself longing for more easy banter in 7Eleven parking lots, more of reluctantly released personal information over Big Gulps filled with slurpee and vodka. More late night tupperware dinners, just, more. 

“You’re so  _ loud _ .”

He turns to see Rhea with an armful of toys and things the kids have left behind. She’s looking at him with that smile he knows so well, the all-knowing one. 

“What?” 

“What are you doing, Chris?” 

“I’m cleaning up, what are you doing?” 

She rolls her eyes, but she’s not done with him just yet. “Alright look– _ look at me _ .” 

He stops folding chairs at that tone and looks at her, sure enough, the look matches the tone. It’s the “Christopher” look.

“Christopher.” 

_ Shit.  _

“You two back to your usual sh--” she looks around for any kids, then drops her voice to a whisper, “-- _ your usual nonsense? _ ” 

“It’s just work, alright?” 

But she’s not buying that either. 

“Yeah? You always look at your coworkers like that? You make eyes at Mick from across rooms on a regular basis, too?” 

“Sometimes,” he says with a wink. “Don’t judge.” 

But he’s caught. She’s still looking at him like she’s waiting for him to confess something she already knows. But she sighs, throws her hands up and says, “Fine. Don’t tell me. Just don’t let it blow up in your face.”

She starts to leave, but thinks better of it and leans in closer to secure only he hears her.

“You have a son. There are kids involved. Yeah? Act like adults this time.” 

She leaves before he has a chance to respond, and he’s left with a stack of folding chairs, and his thoughts, none of which he can carry in one load. 

She’s gone somewhere between putting the chairs away, and taking out the last of the trash, but he catches her getting her kids in the car, and he finds himself approaching her before he’s even thought of what he’s going to say. 

“Jane, honey, please stop with the chocolate.” 

“Mom, I need dolphins…”

“ _ Endorphins _ , you mean? Who taught you that word?” 

“Auntie Annie.”

“Of course. Auntie Annie…”

She shuts the door and seems surprised to see Rio once she reaches the driver’s side. 

“Oh. Hey.” 

“Hey.” 

“What’s up?” 

“You uh, gonna be around later? At home?” 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure. When?” 

“Later. Maybe eight? Nine?” 

“Nine works. Dropping these guys off at their grandma’s lake house for the weekend. I should be home by then.”

The question of Dean hangs in the air. 

“Dean’s already there. So.”

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay,” he repeats, lets the moment stretch out until she’s smiling before heading back to the house. “See you later.” 

She gives a little wave before jumping in the car, and he can’t help the bounce in his step on his way back inside. 

******

He arrives at her house at 9:05, and he waits an extra five minutes before pulling up the driveway. It’s a little chilly out and he shivers as he makes his way up to the front door, where he pauses a moment with his hand on the doorknob, then, thinking better of it, knocking instead. 

She seems surprised when she opens the door. 

“Oh, hey!” 

“I told you I was coming, right?”

He only asks because she truly seems surprised.

“Oh, I know, I’m just not used to you...knocking,” she explains with a laugh. “Come in.” 

It isn’t until he passes her on his way inside that she spots the medium sized tupperware and the two smaller ones in his hands. 

“What’s that?” 

“Oh.” He hands her the containers. “Brought you menudo. Thought you could use some comfort food.” 

“Thank you.”

If she’s touched by the gesture, he can’t tell because she quickly leads him into the kitchen, where she sets the menudo down before asking, “Is this a work visit, or...what is it?” 

He laughs.

“It’s just a visit, Elizabeth.” 

And that sets her at ease. 

At least long enough for her inner hostess to kick in, at the same time he decides to make conversation, and they wind up talking over each other. 

“Can I get you something to drink?” “Are you feeling better?”

“What?” 

“What?” 

Beth pauses, then shakes her head and laughs. 

He really needs to think of something else to ask her.

“I didn’t--know if I should check in or, that’s why I didn’t--should I have?”

“No,” He answers, a little too quickly.

Admitting he expected her to check in feels too much like an admission to worrying about her. 

“No. It’s cool. Nothing fell apart, we’re good.”

She bites lip before speaking again.

“So, you came here to yell at me the other day because…”

When he doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t know what to say, and just when something cruel is getting ready to fly off his tongue, she adds, “Wow, you must have  _ really _ missed me.”

He doesn’t agree, but he can’t get himself to disagree and so they stand in silence, the realization bouncing between them, and then she’s blushing and averting her eyes, and then, as if he’s got no control of it, he’s rounding the counter and catching her with one arm at the waist, while his other hand cradles the back of her neck, and then he’s kissing her, and she’s melting against him, her fingernails raking the back of his head as she arches into him, parting her lips in an exhale before his tongue laves over hers, tasting just a hint of frosting, he thinks. 

Something halts them briefly mid kiss and he waits, their shared breathing audible in the otherwise quiet home. His thumb grazes her cheek as he tilts his head a little and there are words lodged in his throat like the three bullets lodged in his flesh not long ago–there’s something there he’s wanting to say, about missing her, about hating her, and the million other complicated things on the spectrum. 

But she’s here, and she’s so warm, and if he just leans in, he can make this even more complicated, and even more confusing, but the way she inches closer, how her lips chase his, convinces him fairly quickly that it doesn’t matter that this is the easiest, dumbest way to further fuck up his system. 

Whatever rationale he has left goes out the window the second he slants his mouth to kiss her again. When she moans into him, her hands slipping under his jacket to push it off his shoulders, he’s forgotten all the reasons he had for not going there with her again. The moment he sinks to his knees, right there in the kitchen, her underwear torn off and discarded somewhere on the floor, her dress hiked up to her waist as he laps at her pussy like it’s his job, he stops caring. 

She’s moaning above him, the leg she’s got hooked over his shoulder is beginning to tense up and judging by the way her hips jut forward against his mouth, he can tell she’s close, and so he slides his middle finger inside her, pumping it evenly with the pace of his tongue around her clit until she’s panting, and keening. A second finger is her undoing. Her body stills suddenly, tensing as she goes silent for a moment and then she snaps like a rubber band and she’s grinding down against him, a string of desperate moans trailing behind a single “Ohmygod”.

Slowly, as the waves appear to settle, Rio stills his hand and gently lowers her leg off his shoulder, his fingers slipping from her before he stands. She shivers when he brushes her hair back, and licks her lips as she stares, eyes half hooded, at his mouth. 

The way she holds his chin as she leans forward stops him from making any other moves. He lets her set the pace of this kiss, falling into the rhythm she sets with her tongue, lets her take her time tasting herself in his mouth.

Inhaling sharply through his nose when she licks the roof of it, he pushes her harder against the island counter. When she nips at his bottom lip though, something snaps and then his hands, previously patiently holding her hips, now grab at her, fisting the material of her dress at her waist, then palming her breasts, and thumbing her nipples, adding enough friction to get a reaction, the slightest of grunts before her own hands start to greedily tug at his shirt, then his belt and pants. 

They’re mere steps from her bedroom, that much he remembers, but in this moment, he can’t peel himself off her long enough, and he finds it’s easier to hoist Beth onto the counter instead. 

He buries his face in her neck when he first sinks into her, quickly latching onto the tender skin there, letting the cry she lets out encourage them both as he thrusts firmly into her and she meets him halfway. 

She smells like he remembers, tastes even better than he remembers, and the sounds she’s making are even more intoxicating than he remembers. 

He draws back enough to look her face, and she’s a fucking vision; her eyes darker than usual, her lips kiss-swollen, her cheeks flushed. 

Cradling the side of her neck with one hand and her thigh with the other, he begins to fuck her a little faster, the change of pace making her gasp and grip him a little harder, her nails digging into his back through his shirt. 

“Good?”

He pants, and she nods, equally breathless, and he watches in awe as she closes her eyes and lets her head fall back with a string of sharp little moans. Rio lowers his head and licks at the arch of her neck, dragging his teeth up to kiss her jaw, and finally her lips again, and,  _ god, has fucking someone ever been this good?  _

He hikes her thigh a little higher on his hip, driving his hips a little sharper, a little deeper, causing her to pulsate sporadically around his dick, squeezing and releasing deliciously, and he knows it won’t be long until he’s done so he drops his hand from her neck to then slip it between their bodies, quickly feeling for her clit. 

Only a few swift swipes over and around it later, Beth is coming so hard, he can feel it rush his own orgasm, dragging it along with every wet, hot thrust. She muffles her cries against his lips until she can’t help but pull back to gutturally moan through the peak of her release, and then he’s gone, too, emptying himself into her, leaning with one palm on the counter when it’s over, and they’re both left trembling sporadically. 

He’s careful to pull out, both shivering at that. They’re still panting as he leans into the crook of her neck, leaving a hot trail of lazy open mouthed kisses that lead back to her lips. She kisses him softly, and slowly for a few moments before they pull back and, well, it should be more awkward than it is.

It’s a nice surprise that he steps back and she hops off the counter and it doesn’t feel like they’ve supremely fucked up. Not yet anyway. 

She excuses herself and while she’s away, he considers leaving. He doesn’t know why, but something about the stillness of the ‘after’ is making him want to bolt. But Rhea’s in his head, telling him he needs to be an adult, and now he’s angry with himself and the obnoxious way his heart is thudding erratically in anticipation of her return. He keeps looking in the direction of her bedroom, pacing around the kitchen, until he remembers the containers full of food, and so he rummages around to find two bowls, and spoons.

The menudo is still hot, and so he adds the chopped cilantro and onion he brought to both bowls before sprinkling dry pepper flakes and dry oregano on top. 

As he’s pulling two beers from the fridge, she emerges, fresh faced, but still pink-cheeked, and smiling. 

“You hungry?” He asks. 

“Yeah,” she says and pulls up a seat. 

He pushes her bowl in front of her, then a beer, and they proceed to eat in companionable silence, stealing glances at each other once in a while. 

Halfway through, Beth asks, “Did you make this?” 

He laughs, “Hell no. It takes like 8 days to make, I don’t have time to make menudo.” 

“But can you make it?” 

“I know how to make one thing. Enchiladas. And that’s because it requires less than 5 ingredients.” 

She rolls her eyes then. “You’re such a fraud.”

“It’s called takeout.”

“Not the same.”

“I’ll learn some new ones, if you want.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

She nods, “Okay.”

After another pause, he catches her staring.

“What?”

“Nothing, I just--this is--this is different, right? It’s probably going to be…”

“Complicated,” he finishes for her, watches her work it out in her brain. 

“An adjustment,” she suggests with a smirk.

“Sure,” he says. “An adjustment.”

Because that sounds better than admitting this is tangled as fuck, and that they’re signing up for more headaches than they can possibly anticipate. And because at least they’ll have good meals in their future. 

**Author's Note:**

> I was really struggling to write the second half of this for some reason, so I hope it didn't show, and if it did, I hope it wasn't totally indigestible.


End file.
